The Meaning of Best Friends
by Ashily
Summary: Harry’s life was fighting Voldemort, and now it’s over. Just as things start to go right again, the one thing that’s been holding him up is torn away. [Revised! Slash!]


**Title:** The Meaning of Best Friends

**Author:** TearsOfEcstasy

**Summary:** Harry's finally won the final battle, but the question is, what happens after that? His life was fighting Voldemort, and now it's over. He quits his job, he takes a Quidditch, and things start to go right again. Until the one thing that's been holding him up is torn away.

**Rating:** PG13 for, homosexual/bisexual relationships.

**Pairing:** Ron/Harry. Slash.

**Spoilers: **SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, and HBP

**AU:** It's seven years after Hogwarts, and Voldemort has finally been defeated.

**WARNING**: **Yes, two males are going to engage in romantic activities. You have been forewarned. Any anti-slash flamers will be met with my personal wrath.**

**Disclaimer:** Ah yes, this. I do not own Harry, nor Ron. Not even old Voldie. I have merely broken into J.K. Rowling's proverbial toy chest and borrowed her toys. I promise to return them, just as soon as we reach the conclusion, with only minor damage and OOC.

**_Dedication:_** _To the following authors, angel74 (for pulling me into this pair and forever converting me), Mad Martha (who proved slash isn't always fluffy) and the ever changing BlewYourMicrophone (who introduced me into this world of wonders. And also taught me there's no drama like gay drama!) Thank you all so much for your inspiration and toleration to my random and rather loyal reviewing._

**A/N I:** Reworked, beta-ed, so much better. Plot underwent some major work, and so did my grammar. (I have my beta, InSiriusDetail, to thank for that!) **The first two chapters will remain the same (save changes in grammar), so if you don't wait to re-read them I understand. I'd still appreciate a review though.**

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The Meaning of Best Friends

**Chapter I**: Sweet Dreams Never Last

As the soft darkness of night enclosed the better half of the Western World, all of rural Surrey remained quiet save for the gentle wind whistling across the area. It was a quiet night, or morning, as it were; the sky was hazy with purple clouds, the moon glowed an entrancing yellow and light was absent from the windows of the scattered farm houses in the area. It seemed as if tonight would be a peaceful night, or at the very least, a semi-uneventful one.

Of course, this was not the case.

Down the road, a ways from the rest of the farming community and its surrounding town, was a rather odd house. It was a small, really quite normal looking house– on the outside, that is. It was white with blue shutters and a perfectly sizable yard. But ever since the latest in an ever revolving series of owners took up permanent residence, strange noises and bizarre lights had been reported to come from the inside, especially in the dead of night. Though no one had seen the latest owner up close, there was a rumor that he (for he was a man) had a glass eye, a peg leg and had recently been released from a correctional facility in London after a rather nasty serial killing streak. Of course, that was after the series of bank robberies and brief brush with heroin addiction.

Those who had glimpsed him during one of his rare ventures into town said he was simply a slightly shabby middle aged hermit. Those who had the exceptionally rare chance to speak with him (as only a handful of his neighbors could truthfully claim to have done) declared that he was down right polite and could hold a delightful conversation. And the one person who had stepped in his home (a rather cheerful bloke who had come to fix the plumbing) claimed that he was rather grave, but completely amiable, though he found the other man a bit dull. Overall, most residents of the rural community would agree that their neighbor was a rather odd chap, but perfectly normal. But, like most people of the world, Remus Lupin was not who he seemed.

True, he dressed rather dismally and rarely left his house, not to mention was always painfully kind to whomever came his way, but the strange noises were not, as many believed, his television acting up. Or his radio blaring. Or even his heater exploding. The strange noises had a much greater cause than faulty appliances. You see, unbeknownst to his neighbors, Remus Lupin was a wizard. In fact, many would go so far as to say a good wizard. One who's defense against the dark arts (as well as intellectual) skills were far advanced past that of the average man.

Of course, none of that particularly mattered, because for now, he was simply to play the part of middle aged hermit. And he played it quite well.

For now, there was no magic. No dancing pineapples, no self-stirring cauldrons, no owls, nor could he access the WWN! He couldn't even send for a magical item, for fear he would be discovered. It was a hard adjustment, considering he'd been born and raised as a wizard and had never gone as much as a day without magic. He found cooking and laundry to be extremely difficult tasks. His first load he turned all his dress shirts lime green! But it wasn't like he needed them in the grim life he led, he had reminded himself every time he glimpsed in his rainbow colored closet.

Of course, there were the positives, no late _Prophet_ editions to wake him at midnight, no magical gardens in need of de-gnoming, no magical politics to worry about. Truly, there were positives, and no matter how much he hated the negatives he had to look past them. This was his assignment, his so-called "contribution" to the wizarding world. At least, that's what Moody had said when he'd first given Lupin the duty of spying on a tired old muggle community in search of dark wizards. Now, Remus thought it was probably Moody's way of getting rid of him.

But for now, the old man wasn't even thinking of the magic he left behind. Remus Lupin, like most of the residents of the rural community, was fast asleep inside his "odd" house. Through the front door and up the stairs, take a quick right and there he was, sleeping quite passively beneath a thin, summer blanket, snoring rather loudly with a thick volume of _The Magic of the Mind _collapsed against his heart.

He'd been reading up on the relationship between muggle psychology and magic for the past six hours or so, unable to sleep. Of course, by now sleep had come but during those six hours he'd not only been reading, but waiting. He'd been waiting for someone.

The gentle, soundless night gave no hint of a visitor, human or otherwise. But the night, like most things, could be deceitful.

Then, from below came a loud (if not ear splitting) _crack_. Which was quickly followed up by the crash of something valuable breaking. And another. Then a third before a light flickered on in the deserted living room. Only the dead could have slept through such noise and unfortunately (for the situation) Lupin was not. No, after the second crash he felt a blurry consciousness rising in his mind and by the time the light came on he was only buying time.

Regretfully, he found himself wondering if perhaps the moment would pass, and his visitor would leave, thinking him busy.

"Moony?" From below came the soft, unsure call. And at that point, no matter how selfishly he wanted to, Lupin could no longer hold back.

Grudgingly, he slipped out from under his blankets and into the cold night air. He cringed as his bare feet hit the icy cool hardwood floor. _You knew this would happen_, he reminded himself with a heavy sigh, half hoping to himself this was a continuation of his dream (consisting of a nice, peaceful day at Diagon Alley, where wizards could shop for their magical needs). Yet, he knew that wasn't true.

"Are you awake?" A small smile crossed the old man's face as the gentle whisper floated though the house. Rubbing his temples and blinking rapidly, he sleepily shuffled to the doorway, where the light from his living room glowed bright. On a stand next to the doorway hung a rather ragged looking blue-plaid bathrobe, which Lupin wrapped around his shivering shoulders.

He creaked down the steps; already he could hear and very nearly see the happenings below. A dark haired man stood in the center of what looked like a bomb attack. Across the room his most valuable possessions (magic and muggle a like) were scattered and broken. Glass pieces broken and grandfather clock turned over. Any person in their right mind would have been furious. But not Remus. Instead, he laughed softly to himself as the scene continued to unfold.

The man was waving a stick. Quite lavishly (read: ridiculously) so. Oddly enough, as he did so the room seemed to right itself. The upturned Grandfather clock sat it's self back up, the books that had fallen across the floor flew back to the book shelves and the cracked lamp fixed it's self, all without being so much as touched. It was a haunting sight. Any normal person would have probably ran, or gone for the nearest telephone. Of course, as one might have already guessed, that was not what the older man did. No, instead Lupin smiled softly to himself as the last of the fine china righted it's self on the mantel.

Cautiously, he stepped down from the landing, not wanting to take his dark haired visitor by surprise. But it wasn't needed. As the stairs creaked beneath his sudden shift of weight and his ragged, blue plaid bathroom robe rippled across the wooden floor, the man remained totally engrossed with the strange ritual.

"Hello, Harry." Lupin said quietly, "how are you?"

"Lupin!" the man cried in surprise as he whipped around to face his old friend. Now his features were much clearer, even in the dim lighting. His pale skin was nearly glowing in the moonlight, and his green eyes sparked brightly. He was a small man, couldn't have been taller than five-foot-seven, maybe eight. But the most striking thing about the man was his clothes. His pants were stripped and flannel. Most likely pajama pants. He'd also haphazardly thrown on a sweater, not to mention an odd (as if the word hadn't been used enough) set of black robes over that.

"Yes, Harry?" Lupin stepped towards the young man tentatively; his eyes were filled with understanding and sympathy towards his friend. But Harry would have none of it, he turned away from Lupin, his face was coated in shame.

"I... I had the dream again." Taking a deep, almost loathing, inward breath, he looked back at the other man.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Lupin sighed, "We have to stop doing this."

Seeing that this would not be a quick fix situation, Lupin shook his head and gestured to the rather dusty looking red-leather sofa across from him. The pale man cast a wary glance up the staircase, where a dim light glowed from the upper landing, (obviously Lupin's bedroom) and then with a heavy sigh turned back to the graying man.

"I know, I know," he mimicked his friend's sigh, "And I'm sorry to have to keep coming to you for this, but _I can't stop_." He plopped down on the sofa as the older man took the armchair opposite to it. Instead of doing the sensible thing and making himself comfortable, as Mooney did, Harry sat rather stiffly, as if he thought the sofa might break beneath him or that he would be struck down by the wrath of God at any moment. Possible, but not probable.

"I know, Harry," Lupin said softly. "I never said you could." But Harry didn't hear this quiet reassurance for he had lost himself in worry and fret, as he often tended to do at times like this. Remus found it a rather annoying habit, truthfully.

"I wish I could just stop them!" he groaned in frustration, "Every time it happens I come here, and every time I come here Hermione asks why! It's not that I don't want to tell her, but... I don't know, I just can't!"

"Harry," Lupin said gently, "Dreams are our inner most thoughts. It's not often that they are not hard to share." He surprised himself with that last bit; it sounded rather Dumbledore of him. He was quite proud of himself for that one.

Harry let out a defeated moan by way of reply. Lupin took this as a sign that Harry had expressed what he needed and was ready to deal with his reoccurring nightmare. This was a welcome treat for the two.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is the dream where you slit _his_ throat." He said conversationally. Quietly, he suppressed a yawn of complete exhaustion. It couldn't have been later than three o'clock in the morning, though he couldn't say for sure for it was the customary early hour's dark outside. It could have been anywhere between one and six in the morning. But he probably should have been used to being woken up this early by now. Over the last month or so since the fall of the Dark Lord, Harry had come to call like this many times; always in the early hours of the morning and always for the same reason. He should have been accustomed to the late night ritual. Nevertheless, his sleep schedule continued to suffer.

"The same," Harry replied, picking at his robe distractedly. He was obviously bothered by the whole ordeal, the dream and the dependency on his friend alike. Though Lupin had reason to believe it was less of the dream and more of the dependency

"Harry, we've been over this. You were _right_ to kill him. He was an evil man." Lupin argued. But he could already see the thoughts formulating in the youth's mind, he would never believe it no matter how many different people told him.

"But I killed him," Harry said slowly, "I'm a murderer."

"You are not! If anything you killed in self-defense! He would have killed you if you hadn't done something!"

"I didn't have to kill him though." was Harry's weak protest.

"Harry-" Lupin began to object once more.

"Oh God! What time is it?" Harry blurted suddenly. A flash of panic was written across his face.

"I suspect it can't be more than a half an hour past three, Harry," he said in consolation. Then, seeing the panic and worry still in Harry's eyes added, "Calm down. Here, I'll make you some tea."

With that, he shuffled to the kitchen. Which was thankfully open to the living room, or else Harry would have followed. Lupin hated to be bothered when making tea. It was a meticulous task, even with magic, and he had a tendency to make the tea taste more like oily water than earl gray.

"Lupin, I can't." Harry stood to leave, "I have to go to work tomorrow and-"

"You know what your problem is?" Lupin said, beginning to boil the water, "You work too hard. That office is going to kill you if you don't kill yourself first. You need to take a break, an _extended _break from Auror work. It'd be good for you. Ah!" He cried suddenly as the tea began to bubble over. "Well, there you go. That's what I get for living off of Molly." He said referring to the fact that Molly Weasley constantly had Order members over for dinner.

He quickly spelled away the watery mess of tea leaves he'd just spilt on the floor and then returned to Harry, who quite honestly seemed ready to bolt. Inwardly, Lupin cringed. The Ministry was over working their star Auror, it was easy to see. The effect on the other hand, was not. It'd taken him weeks to figure it out, but Harry seemed a bit more peckish, jumpy and nerved after news of his defeat over Voldemort spread. Then there was the fact that he had become seemingly obsessed with time– would he get to work on time? would he get to sleep early enough for work? how long after should he stay? etc. The sad thing was the Ministry didn't see it. They simply saw their celebrity Auror, not another human being. But that was the way to Ministry saw most things, celebrity and nothing else.

"Harry, Voldemort's dead. You don't need to fight anymore." He said reassuringly. With that he stood and flashed Harry a rare but encouraging smile before turning to the stairs once more. He realized that what Harry needed was to rediscover life without Voldemort. He needed to go and be himself, not just a celebrity. He was quite proud of himself for that, because he was not as wise as many men in the area of great advice, but he surprisingly turned out to be pretty decent.

"Let me know what you think in the morning. Making decisions in the middle of the night will wreak havoc your sanity," He said kindly before tapping his wand on the light switch, darkening the house once more. And as he creaked up the steps to his room, Harry Potter was left alone to sort out his own confusing thoughts.

Harry could have sworn the telephone booths were getting smaller everyday. With a telephone book shelf stuck in his hip and the cord tangled around his arms it was glaringly obvious what a big mistake the Ministry had made with transport points.

Since the fall of Voldemort the Death Eaters had been on the rise, becoming more and more active in their attacks and killings everyday. To protect predominant wizarding families and Aurors from surprise attacks, anti-apparation fields had been temporarily set up, as well as red telephone booths to serve as transport points. Of course, it seemed logical, but it was too much of a fuss to have to run from telephone booth to telephone booth in the middle of the night for something as simple as a bad dream. Of course, Lupin's house in the country was unprotected which made things a little bit easier, but he still had to deal with the telephone booths in London.

Naturally, to make things all the worse, transport points were only wired for short distances. Again, to protect Aurors from surprise attacks. Again, a huge and unnecessary fuss.

As much as he'd like to abandon the booths and just apparate home, he had to abide by Ministry laws. Regrettably, even Aurors could not bend the law, as he often wished they could. Although he knew that he could, he was Harry Potter after all, but it bothered him. It definitely bothered him that he had rights "above the law". He wasn't the smartest wizard of them all or the most talented either. He was, to a point, unremarkable. Unimportant. Unworthy.

Irritably muttering to himself about the stupidity of the whole situation, Harry punched in the dialing code and waited patiently for the operator. He was a fairly frequent caller, and though they never asked his name he suspected the operators knew quite well who he was and were wondering very fiercely where in the world he was going in the dead of night. After all, he was easily recognizable, even if it was just over the phone.

"Hello, you've reached the Ministry Transport line. You are currently in Booth 1932 at Cornwall Avenue. This is Jenny. Where would you like to go?" The feminine voice was, as always, painfully polite. Though it seemed a different one; the woman who usually picked up at this time was a bubbly sounding girl with a high-pitched, giggly voice named Amy. Jenny, on the other hand, was quite a bit more serious, though sounded a good bit younger. He was tempted to ask what happened to Amy, but thought it might sound insulting and bit his tongue instead.

"Hello, Jenny. I'd like to go to Alie Street." He thought he sounded rather cheerful for the situation. Chipper even.

"I'm sorry; Alie Street is not in this booth's range." At that moment, Harry's heart very nearly dropped into his stomach.

"What? It was in range just last night, though!" He protested in vain. But he knew it was no use; if it wasn't in range, it wasn't in range. There was nothing he could do about it, even if he was Harry Potter.

Which meant he'd have to take yet another unnecessary trip and be back even later. Hermione would notice of course and she'd grill him to no end, and eventually she'd figure out what he was doing and where he was going. But he couldn't tell her! She'd worry, and she'd tell Mrs. Weasley and she'd worry. Who knows what extremes she'd go to! And-

_Calm down_. Harry reprimanded himself. _It's only a few extra minutes. No one will know._

"Sir, I'm sorry but, Alie Street is not in this booth's range." She firmly replied.

"Where's the nearest booth to Alie Street, then?" He sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair (which was already very nearly standing on end at the thought of Hermione's reaction) with exasperation and a slight tinge of panic. He took in several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his mind, which was going at least a mile a minute. But he couldn't help himself. He was absolutely terrified of Hermione figuring out where he was going.

"The nearest booth to Alie Street is Booth 2279 on Selby Street to Booth 3381 on Scarborough Street." Selby Street to Scarborough Street... That meant two more cramped booths and a long walk. Great.

"What happened to Booth 2886 on Alie Street?" He wondered aloud.

"Booth 2886 was condemned for safety." _Safety? Probably code for budget_. He thought to himself bitterly.

"Alright, Selby Street then," he sighed with an air of defeat.

"Selby Street it is," replied Jenny, who took no note of Harry's displeasure.

"Thank you. Good bye, Jenny," he sighed, returning to his oh-too-polite manor with a new wave of calm.

"Good bye, sir."

And with that, the red disappeared to make way for a new darkness.

After two more red booths (he was nearly strangled by one extra long telephone cord in the last one) and one desperate sprint to his apartment complex, Harry was happy to call this a very frustrating and extremely trying night. He found himself fighting desperately against the urge to break something as he heaved his tired body up the last flight of stairs.

Thankfully, he was able to hold out and keep his dignity just a little longer.

"God damnit!"

Or, at least, until he got to the door.

Hermione had pulled a fantastic trick, an absolutely fantastic trick. She knew he'd forget his key, so she'd removed the spare. Now, someone would have to wake up and let him in. He could bet that Hermione was up waiting. Probably had been since twelve, probably took his Invisibility Cloak too, damnit.

"Hermione..." He moaned into the key hole.

"Actually," came a voice behind the doorway, "it's Ron." With that, the door swung open to reveal the redhead himself.

"Ron, you're a life saver." Harry cried happily as he fell, thoroughly exhausted, into the doorway of the dimly lit apartment.

"I know." He smiled back. He locked the door and then retook his seat in the living room armchair, where he seemed to be finishing the evening crossword puzzle. Harry threw his robes on the chair, he would get them before returning to bed, but for now he could tell that something was on Ron's mind. He seemed rather inhospitable, not to mention his refusal to meet his best friend's eyes.

It could be that all that was bothering him with Hermione's cats, but Harry doubted that.

"You know, you'd better start remembering your keys. The only thing that stopped Hermione from waiting all night was the silencing spell I put on the front door," the blushing youth warned, still concentrating on the crossword puzzle. He seemed to be chewing the end of his quill, which meant it was probably a Sugar Quill from Honeydukes. It was also probably a sign of nerves.

"Right, I'll remember next time." Harry said lightly.

"Mmm-Hmm." Ron still didn't look at him.

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He really didn't know how to approach the subject of what was bothering Ron, though there were a number of ways to do so, each was as unlikely to work as the next. He did have a vague idea of what was bothering Ron, however, if he could only get him to confirm...

"Ron..." He hesitated.

"Yes, Harry?" He answered with a cool tinge to his voice, still not taking his eyes off the blank crossword.

"Is something the matter?" He asked hesitantly.

Ron looked at him with the oddest expression across his face. It registered somewhere in between shock, embarrassment and amusement. Though what it truly meant, Harry could not say for sure.

"I, uh, I don't know why you'd think that, Harry." His ears turned scarlet and he buried his face in the _Evening Prophet_.

"Ron..."

"Yeah?"

"Come on, Ron."

"What?"

"Your ears are red."

"It's the lighting!"

"Fine, it's the lighting. Now,_ why are you avoiding me?"_

"I'm not avoiding you! I'm sitting right next to you for God's sake!"

"Then why won't you look me in the eye?"

Now Ron looked slightly guilty.

"I know you better than that, Ron."

Finally, though very slowly, Ron put the paper down in his lap and with a look of defeat and shame on his face, he gave in.

"It's just, I don't know," He mumbled, "It's kind of stupid really. You probably don't want to hear it."

"I do!" Harry cried in protest, but Ron didn't seem to notice

"Ever since You-Know-Who fell, you've just... you've not been around much. I know you're busy, and it's not your fault, but it's just... it's kind of bugging me." With that, Ron seemed to discover a new shade of scarlet in embarrassment. That he could not attribute to being just the lighting.

Harry was, frankly, stunned. He expected some dribble about Cho Chang's funeral (Ron was vastly against going, though Harry had no idea why) but instead he was faced with, for a second time, the rather touchy subject of his work. Which he preferred, more often than not, to leave at the door.

_You need to take a break. An extended break from Auror work. It'd be good for you. _Lupin's voice rang out in the back of his mind.

"I'm sor-" He rushed to say, but Harry cut him off.

"No, you're right. Lupin said the same thing." His voice had turned suddenly quiet.

"He did?" Ron seemed surprised by this news, for his mouth gapped open rather widely and his eyes bore much of the same appearance, but he quickly covered it up.

"I mean, he's right. Definitely." Ron nodded very solemnly, which took a lot of good acting because he seemed to still be quite stunned.

"Yeah, he is." Now, Harry's voice was barely even audible against the distant meowing of Hermione's various cats, all locked up in her room thankfully.

Now that blew Ron right off his seat, as well as the blank copy of the _Evening Prophet: Crossword Enthusiast Edition_.

"Really? Does that mean...? Are you gonna...?" He stammered half finished thoughts that all seemed to trail off rather awkwardly.

"Am I gonna what?" Though he knew quite well what Ron was thinking, he just wanted to push his buttons.

"Quit, of course!"

"Well..." Harry realized he hadn't thought about that. "I don't really know." He answered finally.

"You can't quit tomorrow- if you do that is."

"Why is that?"

"You'll miss Black Friday."

"Oh, right." Harry realized how right Ron was. Every Friday they formally announced the deaths of the week, first to the families and then, when all families were accounted for, to the press. Black Fridays, the Aurors called them. Who ever had been on duty, or witnessed, the death was sent to tell the family. In most cases, when there was no witness it was mostly drawing straws. Unfortunately, Harry didn't have much luck with straws. He was already scheduled to meet the Patils, the Browns, the Hurleys and the Merchants. And unfortunately, they didn't have a back up if he didn't show up.

It was rather trying, Black Friday. Most families didn't welcome the news of their dead kin, and some were in so much shock in was hard to get a word in edgewise. Often Ron or Hermione would come with him, but on the days they couldn't it was especially bad.

He remembered one incident in particular where the family had completely fallen apart. The mother was cursing everything, the father was fist fighting with the uncle, the sisters of the poor girl were sobbing and her brother decided that was the perfect time to attempt to disapparate. It turned into a rather nasty incident ending with several Obliviators rushing to the scene, as well as Moody and his entire crew, which made things entirely worse.

Overall, Harry would not wish the experience on the Ministry again, even if his loyalties lied elsewhere.

"Maybe you can talk to Moody," Ron suggested, "You know, do you're last service and then leave."

"That might be an idea." Harry sighed half-heartedly. But really, Harry didn't see much of a possibility. By now, a repercussion was creeping through his mind._ Perhaps, _he thought to himself, _Lupin was wrong. After all, work wasn't going to kill him, exactly. The only thing that was going to kill him was a Death Eater, and more Death Eaters were being captured everyday, so it wasn't like he wasn't safe at work or anything like that. Right?_

"Right then, to bed." Ron said suddenly. He tapped the dim lamp with his wand, and the two were emerged in darkness. He seemed to be waiting for Harry to say something, anything. But Harry didn't answer; Lupin's voice was still ringing in his head, sounding more and more forceful every second.

Harry knew this was no time to abandon the Ministry; they were in their hour of need. Rounding up Death Eaters, Obliviating muggles, protecting the Aurors and their families-

_Arranging celebrity appearances for their favorite Auror._ A voice, strangely like that of Draco Malfoy, rang in his head. Though Harry knew Draco and his father had been dead for well over a year, it sounded like the exact same thing the taunting Slytherin would have said. And, surprisingly, he was right.

Tangled in a mess of torn and disoriented thoughts, Harry followed after Ron into the hallway. There, they made to part ways and return to the warmth of their beds, but as Harry did so, he felt Ron's hand brush his shoulder.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Ron?" He looked back at him with puzzlement in his eyes.

"If you... if you need anything," He blushed sheepishly, "You know I'm right down the hall."

But his kind words fell on deaf ears. He might as well have screamed a few sexual obscenities, because Harry's head was elsewhere.

"I'll remember that." He clapped his hand on Ron's shoulder in return, and then retired back to his room, the full impact of what his best friend had said hitting him much too late.


End file.
